From Flatmate to Fiancé
by Sherlockfan12
Summary: As John and Sherlock gradually grow closer, the line between friendship and romance has become rather fuzzy. Slash, Johnlock fluff


**Author's Note:** _This is just one of the many ways I can picture John and Sherlock becoming an official couple. The idea came to me while thinking about dorm life and how much we can take for granted when we get used to living with people. I can see John and Sherlock growing very close long before openly admitting that they've actually entered the territory of romance rather than just friendship._

_-Obligatory Disclaimer -_

_These characters belong to the BBC show writers Moffat and Gatiss. This is just fanfiction, no profits made, blah blah blah. And my apologies for any fangirlish butcherings which have no doubt occurred herein._

* * *

__**From Flatmate to Fiancé**

_Oh my God, I'm his wife._

John lay dumbfounded, trapped under the weight of Sherlock's limp limbs, staring at Sherlock's face still smooshed into the pillow next to him after having poked him several times to remind him the alarm had gone off and they wouldn't have time for breakfast. The morning light was glowing on his white skin making this mad-devil look positively angelic in his peaceful slumber.

It had happened so gradually John hadn't even realized. It began, really, that first night when he'd saved Sherlock's life. At least that should have been a good foreshadowing of the eventual inevitable. But aside from that, it had been a million simple little things that just happen as you get used to living with someone. The times he'd grabbed Sherlock's scarf by mistake. The times when one or the other of them had accidentally drank from each other's cup. The times Sherlock hadn't bothered to dress himself. The times Sherlock had borrowed his toothbrush because he couldn't find his own. The times he'd tucked Sherlock in when he'd passed out in the middle of the floor. The times he'd dozed on Sherlock's shoulder in a cab after pulling an all-nighter chasing some villain all over London. The times they'd pretended to be lovers to prevent from being noticed. The times he'd been distracted while sorting out their laundry and later found himself wearing some article of Sherlock's that he'd blindly grabbed out of his own drawer. The times they'd blundered about in the rain at night together. The times they'd wordlessly made plans on the spot or played off each other to get someone to divulge the information they needed. The times he'd dropped everything to answer Sherlock's texts. The times John had canceled dates, or lost dates, or given up on pursuing dates because of him. The times Sherlock had made him come for no real reason at all. The times they'd fought. The times they'd awkwardly apologized. The times they'd laughed together. The times they'd found nothing edible in the fridge at 3:30 in the morning. The times they'd spaced out observing each other across the room. The times they'd been in the bathroom at once because they were in a rush to get out the door. The times they'd hidden in pitch black broom closets. The times they'd waited for each other, and been impatient with each other, and run madly with each other, and caught each other when they skidded to a halt in some dark alley. The times they'd been happier to see each other than they let on, or sadder to have missed each other than they admitted. The times they'd fallen asleep together on the couch because neither felt like facing the emptiness and nightmares of their own room. They'd become the best of friends, the closest of companions as their lives and personalities had piece-by-piece worn down and re-arranged so that they'd come to fit perfectly together.

And then one night John had woken up to his bed shaking and found Sherlock flopped onto it beside him, hogging the blankets. He'd nearly shrieked in surprise, but Sherlock had mumbled something in utter exhaustion about an experiment gone bad in his bedroom before conking out with his head buried under John's pillow. His room _had_ been a complete wreck the next day, with noxious fumes that lingered for days. Which was how it had happened. Like everything else, they'd begun to share a bed, and as the restoration of Sherlock's room dragged out longer and longer, it eventually simply became his lab, freeing up the kitchen table for more traditional uses. They'd gotten used to sleeping beside, or on top of one another, when they made it up to the bedroom at all, Sherlock usually stumbling in long after John was asleep and just laying half-atop him on the narrow mattress. John had gotten used to massaging Sherlock's back after he woke up cricked from the weird positions he was prone to. And in the summer they'd gotten used to each other sleeping in just their pants. Just how close they were becoming hadn't actually struck John as it had come on in such small steps and little compromises.

And now John woke up to find himself in utter domestic bliss, completely in awe of his gorgeous and infuriating and amazing flat-mate, and wanting nothing more than to kiss those obnoxiously perfect soft lips that were drooling on his pillow. He looked up at the ceiling and laughed. He didn't know if it was for joy or nervousness. He turned to look at him again completely entranced. Cautiously he reached out and brushed the messy curls back behind Sherlock's ear and let his finger enjoy the smoothness of his cheek for a moment. He traced the line of his cheekbone, and along his eyebrow, and down along his jaw, and then found himself scooting closer, leaning low over Sherlock's sleeping face, and turning pink as he gently pressed his lips to the side of Sherlock's mouth that wasn't enveloped by the pillow.

"Good morning, dear" he whispered, although he was sure Sherlock was still out cold.

Chuckling to himself he turned back onto his back and began to wiggle free, but Sherlock's limbs tightened over him making John roll back towards him as he mumbled "You'll have to do better than that if you intend to wake me with a kiss, John." He conveniently turned his face away from the pillow without opening his eyes. John was completely shocked, but the warm light touching Sherlock's lips rendered any hesitancy he may have had obsolete. He crawled over on top of him and lowered his lips gently onto Sherlock's, pausing a moment in the sheer comfort of that closeness before slowly caressing and sucking on them until Sherlock began to respond, wrapping him tightly in his arms and finally rolling over on top of him. "We'll skip breakfast." He murmured, "Who needs to eat anyway." He kissed John back lusciously, then let his head fall back to the pillow next to John's. "I've been waiting for you to do that since 5 am."

"What?"

"Every day for 7 weeks." Sherlock whispered.

"What?!" John couldn't help repeating. Not that it was a bad surprise, but it was _definitely_ a surprise.

"You think I wouldn't notice you were in love?" Sherlock smiled smugly, "You think I wouldn't notice I was?" He gazed across the pillow with what could only be called love-drunk eyes.

"You mean. . .you're not mad? Not appalled that I would ever think it meant. . ."

"It would seem you're my perfect match, John. Who am I to argue with all the evidence?"

"So. . .we're really not just. . . ?" He found himself smiling dumbly, complete bliss washing over him once more.

"You don't have to change your name of course, although it might be convenient." Sherlock winked at him then, which made John's stomach flutter and his cheeks burn.

"You're really serious?"

"We're practically married already. Don't tell me you weren't just thinking that." He gave him a knowing glance, "We seem to be, how would you put it. . . ?"

"Made for each other."

"Indubitably."


End file.
